


Unrequited

by Jillian Maria (masterofthefictionalyard)



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Closeted Character, F/F, Feminist Themes, POV Minor Character, POV Third Person Limited, Period-Typical Homophobia, Unrequited, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterofthefictionalyard/pseuds/Jillian%20Maria
Summary: "But she was just that — a woman. Not an idol to be worshipped or a prize to be won. The men who fell for her had tried to make her into such, they called her 'angel' or 'little lotte,' tried to fictionalize her, subconsciously, so they could justify thinking of her as something that could be owned. But Meg had never called her anything but 'Christine.' "





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Follows ALW POTO canon only. Disregards LND.

****The opera house's halls were echoing, full of ghosts.

She knew, of course, that the echoes had a perfectly natural source. The people milling about on stage were talking quietly amongst themselves, getting ready for the auction. But once she was standing backstage, their voices took on a haunted, ethereal quality. She fancied she could hear dead voices slipping among them, words she couldn’t quite catch dissolving into the dust.

It had been easy enough for her to sneak off, of course. Even though she hadn’t lived here in decades, she still remembered every corridor and corner.

She didn’t know why she’d done it. Being onstage had been easy. Dusty and unused since the last production finished six months ago, it looked nothing like how she remembered it. But backstage had always been a cluttered mess, and it still was. It felt incredibly, gut-wrenchingly nostalgic to be here now. She almost half-expected to turn a corner and see _her_ — half-dressed, she was always half-dressed backstage, her head in the clouds, _“I’ll help you with your hair,”_ blissfully oblivious to the way she made her heart stutter and sing …

Instead, she turned a corner and came face-to-face with a figure, cloaked in black. And all at once a childish fear welled up in her, fear of the worst thing to her back in those days, fear of reproach, _disappointment_ —

“ _Mother_!”

The word left Meg Giry’s lips in a shocked whisper, something she was grateful for before they even finished. If she had shouted, people would have come running, and then she would have had to explain why she was shouting at a mirror for a woman who was now many years in her grave.

She supposed the confusion was justifiable. It never occurred to her until this moment, how much she had grown to look like her mother. Meg usually wore light colors, let her hair fall over her shoulders. But today she was wearing a long black dress that was not too far off from what her mother would have worn in her days at the Opera Populaire, and her hair was tucked up into a black hat. There was no way to see that it was mostly gray, not jet black as her mother had vainly kept her own, right up until the day she died.

Meg took a deep breath, allowing a small, rueful smile. “If you aren’t careful,” she said to herself, under her breath. “Soon you’ll be running onstage, shouting …”

_He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera!_

It wasn’t the memory of her own impossibly young voice that made her flinch, but the memory of brown eyes, going from dreamy and unfocused to trapped and frightened in the fraction of an instant. Frightened, yes, but beautiful, she always had such _beautiful_ eyes …

It was time to go back onstage, she decided. She thought she’d like to go back to where the ballerinas had lived, but there were enough memories lurking here in the shadows.

Coming back onstage was like a breath of fresh air. People in black were clumped together in groups, talking curiously about a giant structure covered in a white sheet that didn't interest Meg in the slightest. The seats beyond were covered, as well. The curtains were drawn along all the boxes. Meg felt a flash of relief at that — with her nerves as high-strung as they were, there was no telling _what_ she’d see in Box 5.

This time, it really _would_ be a ghost — there was no way _he_ was still alive, seeing as how he had been closer to her mother’s age than her own. He had disappeared after that night, but sometimes she’d see that same trapped look in Christine’s eyes, for years after.

_He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera!_

Her eyes were drawn to a wheelchair-bound man on the other side of the stage. He was instantly recognizable, even though she hadn’t seen him in years. Since the funeral, as a matter of fact. The memory set off a familiar dull longing in her chest — it was always there, sometimes she was simply more aware of it.

The man looked up and caught her staring. His eyes widened a bit with recognition, and he gave a polite nod. Always the proper gentleman, the Vicomte was. Before Meg could debate going over there and making the awkward small talk that always passed for conversation between them, a booming voice rang out.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for attending the Opera Populaire's _final_ auction. As the house is closing, _everything_ must go. Let’s begin, then, with Lot 660 …”

Although she tried to focus on the auctioneer’s words, it was no use. Now that she had seen him, had remembered the funeral, it was all she could think about. It had trumped even her own mother’s funeral in terms of heartache. Because while her relationship with her mother was at times trying and tumultuous, it was ultimately _resolved_ . They had talked through their issues, had bonded, had gotten along well in their final decades together. When Madame Giry had died, her daughter hadn’t felt as though there was anything left unsaid. But as for the other one, as for _her_ …

 _Christine_ …

All of Paris had turned out for the funeral of the famous soprano, it had seemed. But the Vicomte had made sure that she had a chance to say her goodbyes properly. He hadn’t been in a wheelchair then, but he had been close. Bowed with grief, with the loss that he was allowed to show. It was his wife they were burying, after all. And Meg Giry had only stood over the coffin, fighting back tears, wishing she could say what she wanted to say, wishing that the person who counted could actually hear it, wishing, wishing …

_Wishing you were somehow here again ..._

“Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen: a poster for this house's production of _Hannibal_ by Chalumeau.”

The familiar name clutched at Meg, drew her harshly back into the present. _Hannibal_ . That was where everything had changed. Where Christine had made her debut, where the Vicomte had come back into her life, where the secrets and the mystery and the _longing_ threatened to tear Meg’s heart right in two ...

The poster showed Carlotta in the lead role, of course. All the promotional material had her on it, even though she hadn’t been the star in the end. Meg had no interest in it, but wasn’t surprised when the Vicomte took it for himself. For him, after all, _Hannibal_ had been a beginning, not an end.

“Lot 664 …”

Some prop from a production that had happened after Meg had left the corps. A lot of the joy had gone out of it for her, after Christine had gone on to bigger and better things. Not even her mother could keep her there forever. It wound up doing good for their relationship, anyways, allowed them to be mother and daughter instead of ballerina and mistress. Meg took a job teaching children to dance, instead — she loved helping them along, loved how their pure joy made up for their lack of grace and expertise. She had always loved children, leading many to ask why she never married and had any herself.

“665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mache musical box, in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order.”

Meg felt an icy chill creep up her spine. _Discovered in the vaults of the theatre …_ She knew what she would see before she looked. She had only glanced at the grinning face for a moment, in real life, but it lingered in her dreams, playing a tune she had only heard described to her …

Except now, for the first time, she was hearing the real thing. It was more perfect than her imagination, just as Christine had described: tinkling and light, with an undertone of dreamy melancholy. She remembered the compassion in Christine’s voice as she described the halting, broken song that was sung along with it, _“He sounded so lost, Meg, as though he were nothing more than a child in need of comforting …”_

“My I start at twenty francs? Fifteen, then?” Meg raised her hand, even though she hadn’t really planned on buying anything. All she could think was that, at one point, Christine had described the velvety feel of it, which meant that Christine had _touched_ it ... “Fifteen I am bid. Twenty francs?”

Meg raised her hand a few more times, but was unsurprised when the Vicomte finally outbid her. It was actually quite fitting, when you stopped to think about it.

She couldn’t find it in herself to feel jealous as she watched the Vicomte cradle the music box solemnly, reverently, as if he were holding something sacred. It was how he held Christine sometimes, too. Once or twice, she swore could almost see the thought, sparkling in his eyes: _I’ve won her. I’ve won her, she’s mine._

She knew she was being unfair. In the end, he made a fine husband to her. In fact, he was nothing but supportive of her career, more than encouraging when she put off having children to pursue it. He loved her — and more importantly, Christine loved him back. That above all things was what allowed Meg to be content with friendship and nothing more, knowing that Christine wasn’t suffering the same heartbreak as she was. She was, in fact, as happy as a woman could be.

But she was just that — a _woman_. Not an idol to be worshipped or a prize to be won. The men who fell for her had tried to make her into such, they called her _angel_ or _little lotte_ , tried to fictionalize her, subconsciously, so they could justify thinking of her as something that could be owned. But Meg had never called her anything but _Christine._

“... Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera …”

Meg _recalled_. _Oh_ , how she recalled ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a little bit of a passion project of mine — not sure how often I'll have time to update it, but given my muse for it, it shouldn't take too long. There just isn't enough Megstine in the world! Which is a shame, because it's my favorite pairing. And while I love the works that exist, I really wanted to try to write one that would fit in with the canon. I'm trying to be upfront with this, though — this is a story of unrequited love. While I love requited Megstine with all of my heart and soul, this is not it. Rather ... this is sort of how I would love a Meg actress to play the role. So keep that in mind while reading. Feedback makes my heart happy!


	2. Think of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back in time!

“Christine … Christine!”

Meg wandered through the backstage area, pausing to check the little nooks and hidden corners that Christine often tucked herself away in. Rehearsal was going to start in just 20 minutes, and knowing Christine, she probably wasn’t even close to being ready. Meg allowed herself a fond smile. She herself had a tendency to fret and worry before big events like this, and Christine's more relaxed nature helped to set her at ease. It was one of the many reasons she treasured the other woman's friendship.

“Christine!” The rope skirt she wore swung gently with every step. The costume designers had really outdone themselves, and Meg couldn't wait to see what they would look like when all of the ballerinas started to dance. She couldn’t wait to see what it would look like when _Christine_ started to dance.

Her heart, already fluttery with anticipation over dress rehearsal, skipped a beat. She told herself she was being silly, childish, with these giddy little feelings for Christine. It was easier to think of that that way, anyways — like a passing fancy, a game. If she took it seriously, it meant that she’d have to face it for what it was — a _sin_. In the eyes of anyone who mattered, anyways. Just the _thought_ of what her mother would say ...

But then she turned a corner, and there was Christine. As expected, she wasn’t ready — her bodice was on, but her rope skirt was hanging forgotten on a chair. Her eyes sparkled with awe and reverence, fixed on something Meg couldn't see. Her full lips were parted slightly, there were high spots of color on her cheeks, and her chest was heaving with rapid, almost _exalted_ motions, filling her bodice —

There was nothing _childish_ about the surge of emotion that swept through Meg Giry in that moment. Quite the opposite.

“Christine,” she called again, softly this time, trying to hide the slight tremble in her voice. Something about this shadowy, hidden away corner, it felt — clandestine. To be here with Christine, to see her like this. For one wild moment she imagined Christine turning that sparkling, alluring gaze on her and …

But Christine was smiling at her now, a perfectly familiar smile, and the spell was broken. “Oh, Meg!” She came to her, out of the shadows. “What is it?”

Meg held out her hair piece, the only part of her costume left to put on. “Could you …?” She didn’t need to finish. It was part of their routine, a little pre-show ritual that they never failed to complete.

Christine’s warm fingers brushed against hers for just a moment as she took it, leaving a tingling in their wake. Maybe the spell wasn't _completely_ broken after all. “Of course!” She set to fixing the small tiara-like garment in Meg’s hair. The edge of her bodice brushed lightly against Meg’s shoulder. She stared determinedly at the wall, trying not to think of just how much she _noticed_ that.

“How much time until rehearsal?” Christine asked, her voice serene. As if she were talking about a casual engagement that she had no obligation to keep.

“Quarter of an hour,” Meg said. “Were you daydreaming again?” Even though she was nervous, it was easy to be light and teasing. It was always easy to be around Christine.

Christine gave a light, breathless laugh. “Yes, I … suppose I was.” She stepped away from Meg. “You look lovely. My turn?” She looked around, a small, bemused frown curving her lips into a delicate pout. “Oh, dear …”

Meg found the tiara, disguised amid the tassels of Christine’s skirt. “Here, Christine.” She handed the skirt off to her friend to put on herself, before carefully setting to her hair.

The brunette brightened immediately, pulling the skirt around her waist while doing her best to keep her head still. “Oh, Meg,” she said fondly, “What would I do without you?”

Childish. The flush that came to her cheeks was utterly childish. Meg refused to think of it as anything else. “What were you daydreaming about?” she asked.

“Oh!” Christine gave a giggle that was almost … nervous? It was strange. “My singing lessons, I suppose.”

Meg’s fingers stilled for a moment, halfway through combing through Christine’s curls. “Ah.” Christine's singing lessons were so strange to Meg — strange because Christine was so secretive about them, or her teacher, at least, and they usually told eachother everything. She quickly picked back up in her duties, and if Christine noticed, she didn’t say anything. “And how are they going?”

“Oh, Meg, it’s so hard to tell,” she said. “I really do think I’m improving, but my teacher is so very difficult to please.” She let out an airy sigh. “He must truly see something fantastic in me, to hold me to such standards.”

Meg thought that anyone who _didn’t_ see something fantastic in Christine must have been blind. “I do wish you weren’t so secretive about him,” she admitted, trying not to sound bitter. She wasn't. Really. Christine could do as she wished. “I’m _burning_ with curiosity.” The tiara was perfectly set already, but she couldn’t help lingering, pretending to perfect it. Inhaling the scent of Christine’s hair.

She really _couldn't_ be mad at Christine for keeping secrets.

“You’d think I was silly,” Christine said after a long moment.

Any thought of allowing Christine her secrets fled Meg's mind in that moment. If that's why she was keeping them, then that was possibly the most ridiculous thing Meg had ever heard. She stopped her faux-hair fixing, instead taking both of Christine’s hands in her own and drawing them to her. “Christine, I’d never think you were silly,” she said, keeping her voice soft, as if frightened of waking someone — something..

“Meg …” They were close — _so_ close, like this. Close enough that Meg could see the light reflecting in her eyes. The world seemed to dwindle away until it was just them, just the warmth of Christine’s hands in hers. Until there was just the sight of her lips …

“Ladies.”

Christine uttered a surprised little gasp, and Meg clutched at her hands reflexively.

For a woman who could silence an entire company with a single pound of her cane, Madame Giry could move silent as a ghost when she wanted to. In her stoic black dress, she looked as though she had materialized out of the shadows themselves to fix them — fix _Meg_ , particularly — with her patented icy gaze.

“Places are in five minutes, ladies,” she said, her tone utterly devoid of emotion. She didn’t have to shout — her eyes were more powerful than any raised voice.

“Yes, Madame,” Christine was saying, hurriedly fidgeting with her skirt, straightening her bodice, patting at the tiara Meg had fixed in her hair. “We’ll be ready, Madame.”

But Madame Giry was staring at Meg — staring at her in that way that often felt like she could see right through her. As if she could see into the thoughts that Meg herself could not allow herself, as if they knew … everything. And approved of nothing.

“Any you, Meg?”

Meg took a deep breath. “Yes, mother — _Madame_.”

Madame Giry looked between them for a long, breathless moment. Then, with a decisive nod, she walked away.

Christine let out a breathless little giggle. “Ooh — she’ll go after us in practice later for sure.”

Meg gave a small snort. “She _always_ goes after me in practice.”

Then they were both laughing, clutching madly at each other as they tried to quiet themselves, and then Meg wasn't thinking of lingering gazes or fluttering heartbeats. There was just Christine, and her friendship, and Meg didn't feel anything but lucky to have her.

—-

“Signor, if you please: _Rome_. We say ‘Rome,’ not ‘Roma.’ ”

Rehearsal was stopped again. Meg sighed, stretching her legs as Piangi, the leading tenor, chattered back and forth with Reyer, the conductor. Off to the side, the leading soprano, Carlotta, made a show of rolling her eyes and adjusting her costume. “We’re never going to get through before the performance tonight,” Meg whispered to Christine.

“Hm?” Christine said, blinking slowly, like she had just noticed that rehearsal was not going along as planned.

Something wasn't right. Meg knew the difference between Christine's usual daydreaming and ... whatever this was. “Christine,” she started, brow furrowed, but then a voice rang out, interrupting her.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”

Meg was surprised to see Lefevre standing onstage with two unfamiliar men. He hadn’t been in the opera house in months, leading many to speculate about his possible retirement.

He gestured to the gentlemen on their side of him. “Some of you may already, perhaps, have met M. Andre and M. Firmin,” he introduced. There was an air of expectation, but before he could say more, Reyer stepped in with his usual terse politeness.

“I'm sorry, M. Lefevre,” he said, “We _are_ rehearsing. If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment?”

Meg rather expected Lefevre to take offence to that — he was the owner of the Opera Populaire after all, and could do as he pleased — but he just gave a good natured wave of his hand. “My apologies, M. Reyer. Proceed, proceed.”

The ballerinas whispered to themselves for a moment.

“He’s retiring for certain.”

“Do you see those men with him …?”

Meg’s first instinct was, as usual, to ask Christine what she thought. But her eyes had that far-off look again, and before she could take the proper time to get her attention, the orchestra swelled, and Piangi began his song.

“Sad to return to find the land we love, threatened once more by _Rome’s_ far reaching grasp …”

Soon, it was the ballerina’s cue to go, and Meg tried to focus on her dancing and her dancing alone. It became difficult, however, when the two strange men — Andre and Firmin — were standing right where she was supposed to go.

The harsh rap of her mother’s cane against the stage made her jump, but for once, it wasn’t the ballerinas she was scolding.

“Gentleman, please! If you would kindly move to one side?”

“My apologies, Madame Giry,” Lefevre said easily, ushering the men away. Meg twirled into the empty space they had left, raising her hands in a gesture of faux-supplication, doing her best to forget possible retirements and strange, dreamy girls, trying to get lost in the role.

Meg loved dancing, and often got lost in it. But it was harder to do onstage than it was alone. Alone, she was free to do as she pleased. She didn't have to worry about missing steps or going off-beat. On stage, she was always tensed, scripted, waiting for the bang of her mother’s cane to signal that something had gone wrong.

She twirled, and there was Christine in her line of sight. _She_ was lost in the music, and Meg wasn't surprised. Christine’s talents as an actress could not go understated — in Meg’s opinion, it was her main strength. Her boundless imagination and empathy allowed her to effortlessly put herself in anyone’s shoes. Even in this minor role, as a slave girl, she was perfect — the joy on the surface of her expression, put on for the benefit of her captors, only half-concealed a tired, trapped look in her eyes. Meg had seen her embody countless roles before, but she never ceased to be amazed by how naturally it came to her.

And she was beautiful. So, _so_ beautiful. She hadn’t even noticed that her friend had fallen out of step until the harsh rap of the telltale cane.

“You! Christine Daae! Concentrate, girl!”

Meg leaned her head towards Christine as they danced, whispering. “Christine, what’s the matter?” This wasn’t like her. She was absent-minded, yes, but she was a good dancer in spite of it — perhaps even _because_ of it. It made Meg worried enough to risk the scolding she would no doubt receive for speaking onstage.

But Christine only had time for a sheepish half-smile before the dance was over, and they had to sing.

“Bid welcome to Hannibal's guests …”

The rest of the scene passed by more or less without incident — a minor miracle in itself. Meg felt a little relief when it was over, and reached out to Christine to speak properly with her. But then Lefevre was clapping his hands, doing his best to get their attention, and she felt a moment of bright, irrational annoyance with him — he hadn’t even bothered to come see their past few shows, and he picks _now_ to demand they listen to him?

“Ladies and gentlemen …”

No one seemed to pay him much mind. Meg had an admittedly petty urge to continue talking, but then there was the sound of her mother’s cane, impossible to argue with.

“Madame Giry, thank you,” Lefevre said, before turning to the rest of the company. “May I have your attention, please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement.”

Rumors was a rather kind word, in Meg’s opinion. Most of the company had taken it as more or less fact. Lefevre only told them what they had already guessed as he continued.

“I can now tell you that these were all true, and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles Andre.”

Meg caught the eye of one of the gentlemen and nodded at him politely, although at this point he was more of a nuisance to her than anything else. Cutting into the valuable break time she could be using to figure out what was so distracting her friend. Soon, however, another woman had both of their attention — a beautiful, large woman who was, as usual, doing her very best to make herself known.

“Gentlemen,” Lefevre introduced her, “Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now.”

The men fawned over her and Piangi, which was more or less expected. Carlotta gave the Opera Populaire its name and prestige. Meg thought that she was very talented, of course, but didn’t quite understand the ego she had. To her, singing was not all that impressive of a talent — and it didn't seem as though Carlotta worked too hard to maintain it these days. And she couldn’t _really_ act — she was much too busy being herself to try and put herself in someone else's shoes. Nothing like …

“Christine,” she said softly at the other girl’s ear. “Something’s the matter. Won’t you tell me?”

Christine blinked her wide eyes, finally focusing on Meg. She gave her a smile that seemed genuine enough to loosen the knot of anxiety in Meg’s chest. “Nothing’s the matter, Meg,” she said softly. “I’m just thinking. But they aren't _bad_ thoughts, or sad. Just ... thoughts.”

That was a relief. But now that the concern was out of the way, curiosity lingered. “Of what?” Meg asked, immediately. Christine seemed taken aback for a moment, and Meg could understand why. People were quick to write her off; no one really thought the silly daydreams of a chorus girl were important. But Meg recognized that Christine was intelligent — so intelligent, really. It just manifested differently. She was always interested in what the other woman had to say, and if the rest of the world wasn't ... that was their loss.

“Christine,” Meg prompted gently. Her tone caused another smile to break across her friend’s face.

“Dear Meg,” Christine laughed, fondly. “You really are curious, aren’t you?”

Meg nodded. “I’m always curious about you, Christine. You’re my friend.”

The piano started up, soon followed by Carlotta’s voice. She was putting on a little performance for the new owners of the house — flinging herself around, making grand gestures with a long scarf in her hands, turning what should have been a soft, nostalgic number of lost love into a spectacle. But when Christine leaned closer to her, Meg swore the music got a bit sweeter.

“Did you mean it, when you said you’d never find me silly?”

The question caught Meg off-guard. _You’re my friend._ She reminded herself of this. It was time to _really_ listen to Christine, not get lost in silly little childish daydreams about the smell of her hair, so close as she leaned forward to whisper. Christine _deserved_ someone to really listen to her, and Meg wanted to be that person.

“Of course,” Meg said, exhaled on a breath.

Christine looked over her shoulder, as if making sure no one was overhearing. Then she turned back to Meg … and there was a mighty crash. A backdrop fell from the ceiling, missing Carlotta’s head by inches.

A little gasp worked its way from Christine’s mouth, several screams came from the ballerinas, and the music came to a discordant halt. The magic of the moment was ruined, encapsulated by fear.

And Meg, meeting her mother’s eyes from the other side of the stage, said the words that were on everyone’s mind.

“He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera!”

The rest of the cast thought that she was fixated, but really, Meg never thought much about the opera ghost, until something like this happened. When it did, though, she was reminded of every story her mother had ever told her, every warning not to wander the opera house as a child. And the words that slipped past her lips every time, nearly a chant, felt like a spell to ward off further evil.

She clutched at Christine nervously in the pandemonium, as Carlotta wailed and Lefevre called for the stagehand. Christine leaned into her, gently touching her arm. "It will be alright, Meg," she said softly. Somehow, she always knew just what to say. Meg had no problem believing her.

“Buquet!” Lefevre was blustering now, as the old stagehand made his way down, looking at the backdrop in confusion. “Buquet, what is the meaning of this?”

“Please, monsieur,” he said in his cracked, aged voice. “It wasn’t me. I’d left my post for just a moment — no one was there.” He grinned, flashing his eyes at the ballerinas. “Unless it was a _ghost_ , of course.”

He turned his grin on Meg, and she couldn't help the shiver of fear that wound its way up her spine. Buquet had a certain ... reputation, and she always felt acutely uncomfortable when he looked at her. “He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera,” she said again, softly, as if she could ward off that strange feeling with her childish little chant.

One of the new owners gave her a sharp look at her words. “Mademoiselle, _please_.” Meg averted her eyes, flinching against Christine’s shoulder. Christine held her a little tighter, and that helped more than any chant did. Meg reached up and put her hand on top of Christine’s, giving her a nod. She'd be okay, even though she was frightened. Christine was beside her.

The other owner, meanwhile, was trying to pacify the distraught Carlotta. “Signora, these things do happen,” he said.

“Oh, dear,” Christine said under her breath, bracing herself. This time it was Meg’s turn to hold Christine a bit closer. People with a temper frightened her, and Carlotta looked like she was gearing up for a proper tantrum.

“ _Si_!” She shrieked, causing several of the ballerinas to gasp and one of them to let out an exasperated groan. “These things do happen! Well, until you stop these things from happening …” She gave a dramatic gesture, pointing to her throat. “ _This thing_! Does not happen!” She made an imperious motion with her hand, and Piangi sprung into action. “ _Ubaldo_! _Andiamo_!”

She left the opera house, grandly throwing the furs over her shoulder, with Piangi in her wake. Meg tried to look properly concerned, although Christine had buried her face in her shoulder, and the warmth of her breath against her neck was really all she could focus on.

There was silence for a long moment. Meg gave Christine a light squeeze, letting her know it was over, and Christine slowly peered out and stepped away from Meg, although she kept a gentle grasp on her arm.

It was Lefevre who finally broke the silence. “I don't think there's much more to assist you, gentlemen. Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt.” And with that, he was gone, as well. The company descended into shocked whispers.

“La Carlotta will be back,” Andre said, nervously.

“You think so, messieurs?”

At the sound of Madame Giry’s voice, the company fell silent. To most of them, she was a mysterious, imperious figure. To Meg … she really wasn’t much different. Her mystery was just a bit more familiar. No one was more surprised than the ballet mistress’s daughter to see her holding up a white envelope with a red seal, but at the same time, she really wasn't surprised at all. Her mother ... knew things. It was as simple and as complicated as that.

“I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost.”

The ballet girls twittered and twirled. “Meg, where did she get that?” Christine asked in a whisper.

“I don't know,” she responded, just as soft.

“He merely welcomes you to his opera house,” Madame Giry continued above objections from one of the new owners, “And commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use ..." She took a moment to gesture at the box. "And reminds you that his salary is due.”

“His salary?” Firman asked, aghast.

Madame Giry gave him a look that quelled him instantly. Meg felt a bit of pity for him — she was all too often on the receiving end of that stare, so she knew exactly how chilling it could be. “Monsieur Lefevre paid him twenty thousand francs a month. Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron.”

Christine gasped and clutched at her again. Meg patted her hand gently, although she was just as shocked. All too often, Meg had heard of Christine’s childhood friend, the one she spoke of with a fond sparkle in her eye that seemed reserved for him and only him. The cultured boy who grew up to be a vicomte.

 _Mother could have warned her, at least,_ Meg thought reproachfully. But she knew that wasn't Madame Giry's way.

 _“He probably doesn’t even remember me,”_ Christine had said once, a bit forlornly. It had broken her heart, to hear her say that. And now, seeing the mix of nervousness and hope in her friend’s eyes … Her heart was breaking all over again, and she didn’t know if she’d rather the vicomte did remember her or didn’t.

She scolded herself, internally, for being so selfish. Christine was not hers to own. Christine was allowed to meet up with as many childhood friends as she wished, even if there was no way that said friend could possibly know her as intimately as Meg herself did, after so many years with not even a single letter …

“Who is the understudy for this role?” Andre was asking.

“There is no understudy, monsieur,” Reyer responded, “The production is new.”

Meg hadn't planned on saying anything. But, suddenly, she found herself stepping forward, the words falling from her lips before she even knew what she was going to say. “Christine Daae could sing it, sir!”

Christine gave a little noise that might have been one of surprise or protest. In truth, Meg wasn’t sure why she did it. As proof to herself that she knew Christine better than this vicomte? In guilt over having such thoughts in the first place? Whatever the reason, even _her mother_ was looking at her with undisguised shock. And, well, the reason didn't really matter. Christine _deserved_ this — she was a better _actress_ than Carlotta, at least — and she knew the other girl wouldn't even consider offering herself.

“The chorus girl?” Firmin asked, aghast all over again.

Meg took Christine by the arm gently, squeezing it supportively. “She’s been taking lessons from a great teacher,” she claimed. She didn't know who, of course, but the gentlemen before her didn't have to know that.

Andre raised an eyebrow. “From whom?”

“I … I don't know, sir.” Christine looked at the floor. Meg took her hand and squeezed it, gently. Christine looked up at her gratefully — she wasn't angry with Meg, at least. There was a part of her that wanted to do this. Meg felt a flash of fond pride for her friend — Christine really was coming a long way with these lessons, then. She deserved this chance to show them off.

Firmin, meanwhile, was beside himself. “Oh, not you as well! Can you believe it? A full house — and we have to cancel!”

“Let her sing for you, monsieur.” This time, it was Meg’s turn to look at her mother, shocked. “She has been well taught.” Meg was at a loss. What on earth did her _mother_ know about Christine’s teacher? Had Christine confided in her, and not Meg herself?

But when she looked at her friend’s face, she seemed just as mystified.

“From the beginning of the aria, then,” Reyer said. A look of panic came into Christine’s face. Lessons or not, she was nervous, and that was understandable enough. Meg quickly scooped up the scarf that Carlotta had abandoned in her grand exit, pressing it into her friend’s hands.

“You can _do this_ , Christine,” she whispered, and gave her friend’s hands one final squeeze before scurrying off to the side.

The piano started, slow and soft. Christine opened her mouth and began to sing, almost too quiet to hear. “Think of me … Think of me fondly … When we’ve said goodbye …”

Her eyes darted nervously around the stage and landed on Meg. She smiled and gave her an encouraging nod. Christine returned the nod and sang the next line a bit louder still, but trembling.

“Remember me … once in awhile … Please, promise me you’ll try.”

The managers were mumbling. They didn’t see the transformation that came over Christine’s face as her eyes continued, above Meg’s head, and locked on something no one but her could see. Meg recognized that look and rejoiced when she saw it, even though it meant her friend’s gaze was no longer on her.

Christine was getting lost in the role. And when she sang again, her tone was enough to make even the heavens stand up and take notice. Even the opera ghost himself did not dare to interrupt her performance.

“When you find that, once again, you long to take your heart back and be free if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!”

This is where it begins, Meg thought in amazement. At the thought of Christine’s future finally opening up before her, the joy she felt for her friend completely overshadowed the fear that she might be left behind, and there was only room for happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... things are moving right along! I'm definitely having fun figuring out Meg's mental state here, how she loves Christine as a friend and is genuinely happy with that, but also loves her as something more. And it's a struggle between wanting more and being satisfied with what she has all at once. Y'know, general crushing-on-your-straight-friend stuff. Totally not something I've experienced before ... toooootally. Although Meg has a helping of period-appropriate angst, as well.
> 
> Anyways. Really excited for future chapters, where we'll be able to delve not only into Meg's feelings for Christine, but also her feelings about Raoul, and the opera ghost, and even her mother and herself! So keep your eye on this fic, and let me know what you think so far!


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